As for marrying, he hadn't yet answered her question of whether love could grow from strong desire. Nor had she. But she'd expected no easy declaration of love-not from him. If he said it, he would mean it-she could count on that. But he could only tell her if he knew-and she didn't think he did. However…

There was a light in his eyes, behind the heated glow, behind the passion and desire-there was a sense in his touch, in his kiss, in all his actions. And while that light shone, and while that sense reached her, she was convinced there was hope.

Hope of love-hope for a marriage invested with love, built on love, with him. She was willing to risk all to claim such a prize. Fate had offered her this chance to secure her deepest, all-but-unrecognized dream-she would take it, grasp it with both hands. And do everything she could to make the dream come true.

She would marry him, but on her terms. He would need to do more than seduce her-teach her about passion, desire and physical intimacy-to get her to say yes. She wasn't, however, about to stop and explain. Tonight was for them-their first night together.

Her first time with him.

When next he drew back, she smiled; lifting her arms, she draped them over his shoulders. His eyes met hers as he slid her closer to the dressing table's edge. He studied her face, his own hard, passion-set; wrapping one arm about her hips, he lifted her and stripped her dress away. Excitement shot through her, searing her veins. Clad in her chemise and petticoats, she dared to meet his eyes. He raised his brows slightly, then slid his hands upward and closed them about her breasts. "Do you like this?"

Her lids fell of their own accord; her head tipped back.

"Yes." She breathed the word, aware only of his clever hands, his clever fingers, as they stroked and gently squeezed. Although muted by fine lawn, his touch burned. His lips returned to hers. Sliding one hand to her back, he urged her nearer, closer to the table's edge.

She complied without thought-thought was beyond her; all she could do was feel. Her senses gloried in un fettered freedom, freed by her decision, freed by the night.

Freed by him. His kiss anchored her to the world, but it was a world of sensation, a world filled with an excitement she'd never known, and a promise of glory she wanted for her own.

Demon captured her lips and kissed her-ravenously-no longer so gentle, so controlled. She was delectable, and so very nearly his-he wanted to devour her. On the thought, his lips slid from hers, tracing the curve of her throat to where her pulse beat hotly. He laved the spot, then sucked lightly; appeased by her gasp, he moved on, sliding his lips along the curve of her collarbone, then shifting lower to the warm swell of her breast.

Through her fine chemise, one pert nipple beckoned; he closed his mouth over it and heard her shocked gasp. But she didn't try to wriggle back-she didn't tell him to stop. So he settled to feast, to wring more shocked gasps from her. Long before he raised his head, he'd succeeded, drawing a chorus of appreciation from her lips.

He kissed them again, parting them fully, ravishing her softness, taking all-demanding more. She met him eagerly, no match for the brutal strength of his passion but with an open eagerness that nearly brought him to his knees.

Abruptly, he stopped kissing her, amazed to find his own breathing as ragged as hers. Nuzzling aside her curls, he slid his lips into the sweet hollow beneath her ear while his fingers swiftly dealt with the laces of her petticoat.

Speed had suddenly become essential. Imperative.

She sighed, a tense exhalation shimmering with reined excitement; the sound literally shook him. The scent of her, rising to torment him, added to his pain. He glanced down at the soft chemise that hid her body from his sight-he longed to strip it away, but experience warned against it. Sitting naked atop a table in full light might be too much for her this time.

All thus far had gone according to his plan. She'd introduced an odd moment or two, but he'd kept them on track. He intended to seduce her but, this time, he needed to do more. He needed to be gentle, and not just because he was excruciatingly aware, to his very fingertips, of her innocence. He wanted her not just once or even twice-he wanted her for all time. So the moment had to be compelling. As powerfully compelling as he could make it-so she would want him again, as eagerly, as enthusiastically as he knew he would want her.

Another challenge-she was full of them. It was one of the things that so attracted him to her.

The laces of her petticoat came free; he loosened the waistband, pushed it down, then swiftly lifted her and swept the garment down her legs. He freed it from her feet, then flung it after her gown. His cravat and shirt followed-as he stepped back to stand against her knees, he flipped off her shoes.

She was waiting, almost shivering with excitement; she raised her arms, lifted her face and welcomed him back with an open-mouthed kiss. He sank into it and let her lead him where she would while he slipped off her garters, then rolled her stockings down, careful not to touch her bare skin. She was so caught up in their kiss, he wasn't sure she noticed when her stockings slipped away, and she was sitting in the candlelight clothed only in her chemise. The fine garment reached to midthigh; he grasped a fold and tugged-she was sitting on it.

Mentally girding his loins, he filled his lungs and wrested back control of their kiss. When he was sure he had all the reins in his grasp, he set his hands on her hips, simply holding her, giving her a moment to grow accustomed to the feel of his hands there. Her chemise was so fine it was no real barrier-to his touch or his senses.

She skittered a little, but calmed almost immediately; as soon as she did, he let his hands wander. Gliding, soothing, tracing, learning, he caressed her thighs, her knees, her calves. Then, gently but firmly, he grasped her knees and eased them apart.

She no longer had them locked together, but she resisted-for a moment. Then, hesitant but willing, she let him move each thigh outward, until he could step between.

Before he could haul in a triumphant breath, one of her hands slid from his shoulder to his chest. Quivering awareness shot through her-and him-when her fingers tangled in his crisp hair, when her hand came to rest tentatively, warm palm on the wide muscle above his heart.

For one long instant, Demon simply existed, focused totally on her-on holding onto the reins of her seduction. Her awakening was becoming an awakening for him-an introduction to delights more intense than any he'd previously known.

The tension that held her so tight, so taut, was, for all that, so intensely fragile; he felt as if, with one wrong move, one wrong breath, he might shatter it. And her.

When her hand shifted, drifted, then gently traced across his chest, he breathed again. Sealing his demon's reins in a death grip, he subtly altered their kiss, encouraging her to explore, relieved, if more tense, when she did.

Gradually, he eased her forward, closer to him, to the edge of the table. Every inch she slid forward pressed her thighs farther apart, until, beneath her chemise, they were wide-spread, held so by his hips.

She was open to him.

It took him a moment or three to shackle his raging lust-a few more to beat back his demons. What came next had to be perfect-it had to be right. Nothing in his life had mattered so much.

Sliding one hand to the small of her back, he settled it there, solid and sure behind her. Then he raised his head fractionally, breaking their kiss, but leaving their lips a mere inch apart. From beneath his lids, he watched her face as, with the same gentle yet deliberate touch he'd used throughout, he dipped his hand beneath her chemise's hem and slid it slowly up the silken length of her thigh.

Her lids flickered; he glimpsed her eyes, wide pupils circled in startling blue. She trembled; her breath caught, then she slowly exhaled. He stroked her thigh, the long quivering muscle, then the delicate inner face-he stroked upward, brushing her lips when she shuddered, letting her cling when, with the backs of his fingers, he caressed her quivering stomach.

Then, very slowly, he let his fingers glide down, tracing the crease at the top of one thigh, then the other, then, easing back from their kiss, he gently pressed two fingers into the silken curls between her thighs.

She sucked in a breath; a sharp quiver lanced through her. Her eyes were shut, but he watched her face, watched the expressions-anticipation, excitement, sharp delight and flaring need-flow across her features as he caressed her, then parted the soft folds and touched her intimately. She was already hot, already plump and swollen; he played, and damp quickly became wet. He found the tight nubbin hidden in its hood; he circled it with a moistened fingertip-her breath hitched, she shuddered; wildly clutching his shoulders, she sought his lips with hers.

He kissed her, but kept the caress light-he wanted her concentrating on his fingers, not his lips. With his hand at her back, he eased her forward another inch, so she was close, very close, to the edge-instinctively, she raised her knees and gripped his hips for balance.

If he could have grinned triumphantly, he would have.

She was fully exposed-to his touch, to him. He touched, caressed, then, very gently, probed her slick, soft flesh. He found her entrance-ignoring the sudden heightening of her tension, he eased one finger in, then, in the instant she caught her breath, slid it slowly, inexorably, into her heat.